After I Lost My First Child, I Felt Like a Monster For Not Wanting A Boy

Even before I ever considered having kids, I always knew I wanted to have a little girl. I wanted the cliché Lorelai and Rory Gilmore relationship that all 20 and 30-something moms want. I wanted to plan her birthdays with tea parties and mani pedis. I wanted to dress her in baby feminist gear. I wanted to explain to her what a period was, and buy her a pint of ice cream and a cozy robe in celebration. I wanted to give her relationship advice, and remind her to always be herself, and to never, ever settle.

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So many things.

When I finally did get pregnant, though, it wasn't that easy.

22 weeks into my pregnancy, I inexplicably went into pre-term labor. My daughter, Margaret Hope, was born at 2 a.m. on a Sunday and fought for eight hours before succumbing to her tiny body's inability to sustain itself. You don't know what real heart break is until your baby up and leaves you like that.

It was only a few months before I was pregnant again, still grieving my first born but convinced that the pain would be more bearable if I was able to have another.

At first, I told myself I didn't really care whether it was male or female. After all, gender is a social construct. All children are equally wonderful, and regardless of biological sex, they'll define who they are as a person. As a feminist, I've never cared for folks' obsession with gendering children, forcing pink-everything on little girls, while giving boys a truck and a toolset.

But as the day of my sex reveal ultrasound got closer, I began to feel sick to my stomach. For the past few weeks, I'd been waking up in the middle of the night for a glass of milk or a bowl of cereal. I remember one particularly hungry night, I said to my husband:

"This is definitely a boy."

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"I was never this damn hungry with Maggie."

Part of me welcomed the possibility of having a boy, of having a miniature version of my husband around, blue-green eyes and all. But the other part of me wanted to cry. I'd built up all these plans in my mind during my last pregnancy of all the fun things I would do with my daughter. Having a son meant possibly saying goodbye to many—if not all—of those dreams.

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The day of the ultrasound, the tech gave us the news:

"It's a boy!" she said, pointing to the little penis on the screen.

I smiled, but it felt like an elephant was trampling my chest. The minute the tech got out, I let out a few tears, but tried to hold them back so my husband wouldn't think I was an absolute monster for being disappointed in having a male child.

On the drive back to my job, my husband could tell something was bothering me. I finally broke down and told him how awful I felt that I was pregnant with a boy, and how awful I felt about feeling awful about having a boy. He told me he understood, but that it really shouldn't matter. And looking back on it, he was right.

I smiled, but it felt like an elephant was trampling my chest. The minute the tech got out, I let out a few tears, but tried to hold them back so my husband wouldn't think I was an absolute monster.

After a few weeks, I began to work against my own gender bias, trying to figure out all the things I was looking forward to doing with my new child, no matter his gender. I thought about the first time I'd give them pizza and the first time I'd take them to a concert (both things I've since had the pleasure of doing with my son). I dreamt of doing mommy and me yoga, of showing them the ocean for the very first time, of reading to them and of the first time they'd call me, "mommy."

I remembered my dream of someday taking my daughter to the ballet with me, and of making The Nutcracker an annual event for the family. When I got a little sad, I realized how intensely my mind had been warped into believing that no little boys like the ballet. Mentioning it to my husband, he told me he loved The Nutcracker as a child. That settled it. Things weren't black and white.

Courtesy of Priscilla Blossom

I thought I wanted another girl, but what I really needed was a reminder that gender doesn't matter. So long as I build a nurturing and supportive environment, my child will enjoy his toys and books and clothes and activities—regardless of preconceived notions of gender. Maybe he'll start wearing make-up someday, or maybe he'll keep up with his obsession with race cars and trains. Or perhaps one day he'll tell me he actually isn't a he at all, and I'll embrace my child and love them just as much as the day they were born.

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